Garrett

So... I don't know if I like this one. But it was very helpful in getting to know my brand new character, Garrett the Unmarked, so I thought I would share.

I looked up the line. It stretched forth, all the way to the doors of the temple, where it disappeared. I was second to last in the line, with a kid from the outer farms being the only one behind me. There were about twenty of us total, although it seemed like more, as every youth had an entourage of family and friends surrounding them. Well, most every youth.
I was alone, but that didn't bother me too much. The people of Greenedge, the small farming community that I had grown up in, did their best to forget that I existed; just as my family had done when they left me here.
I could remember the night when it had happened, twelve years ago. My family had been returning home from a meeting of my father's that had taken place in Camarid. It was late in the evening, and I had fallen asleep to the gentle rocking of the coach in which we rode. At some point, I was woken by my father's large, scarred hand on my shoulder. Bleary eyed, I looked up and he quietly growled for me to get out of the coach. As I got out, I turned to look at my older brother and sister, still asleep in the carriage. My father, a hard man, roughly grabbed my shoulder and turned me away from my siblings, steering me towards a signpost. It was then that I noticed my surroundings. The full moon lit up a small village that stood in the foothills of a rocky mountain range. I stood at the far edge of this village, next to the one large road that led into it. As my father and I reached the sign, I could read that the name of the town was Greenedge. I had never heard of my soon-to-be home before. My father, taking advantage of my sleepy state, quickly and roughly grabbed my arms and wrapped them around the wooden post, using some rough twine to fasten them in place. At this harsh and unexpected movement, I began to cry. My father knelt down in front of me, grabbed my face and turned it so that I had to look directly at him.
"I do this for the good of our family," he spat. "With you, we were looked down on. They called us cursed and devil-callers. But I will not have my name blighted because of a son I never wished to have. If I had my way, you would have been dead before you uttered your first whimpering cry, but your mother wouldn't let you die, nor will she still. And as such, I leave you here to make a life of your own. But know this: if I ever so much as here your name mentioned again, I will not hesitate to find you and kill you."
With that, my father had left me, alone in the night, in a town I would never be welcomed into, a town I could never call home. I had sobbed as the coach disappeared onto a distant road, calling my siblings' names, but soon I had stopped, knowing my cried would not be answered. It had not taken long before I had distanced myself from those emotions, vowing to myself never to cry again.
"Hey, Curseborn! What do you think you're doing here?" It was the voice of Tumat, the stable master, that snapped me out of my memories. "Do you really need a mark from the Creator? If you ask me, I think he already gave you one."
I turn to look at Tumat, raising my hand to touch the place where an eye should be. Instead of an eye, my hand meets scar tissue: the scar tissue that covers most of the left side of my face.
The line to the temple had finally almost disappeared, but I wished that it would have moved faster. I wasn't sure I could handle the tormenting today. Today was the day of Feldmark. The day when each seventeen-year-old in the village would be taken before the Tagunatus shrine to receive a mark from Apollinoth, the Creator, revealing to them the nature of their lineage. Only the Heathen, those who deny the Creator, live their lives without a knowledge of their spiritual ancestry.
"Garrett, I am talking to you," Tumat hissed as he stepped closer to me, "and I expect you to answer my question. Why are you here?"
I straighten my back and look Tumat in the eye. "I am here to receive my Feldmark. To find out which line my spirit is descended from."
"You already have your mark, Curseborn, right there on your blighting face. And that mark tells you exactly where your spirit comes from - The Black Pit! Your spirit is not descended from some noble line, no. If you ask me, I say your spirit isn't a spirit at all."
I take a step closer, so my face is now inches away from Tumat's, and spit on his shoes. "What are you saying, Tumat?"
Tumat reaches out and grabs the front of my shirt. "I'm saying that you are a blighting shadow, boy. I'm saying that your face is proof of it. Proof that you shouldn't even exist!"
With that, Tumat shoves me away, so that I stumble back and land on the ground. He then chuckles and struts away. I stand back up quickly, preparing to go after him, when the farm boy behind me in line grabs my arm.
"He's not worth it," the boy, says, "anyway, it's your turn."
I rip my arm out of the kid's grasp, glaring at him. But despite my resentment at being stopped, I know he is right. Tumat isn't worth it, and I can prove him wrong faster by entering the temple rather than fighting.
I turn, looking at the symbol of the Creator, a large winged sword, that is etched over the entry and step into the building.

By the way... the picture is of Garrett a few years later, when he is bearded, but the scar is pretty much the same.

I Will Defend

A while back I posted a poem called You're Coming Home - A Song of Death. I liked the poem, but when I read over it, I realized it could be improved... a lot. So I started reworking it. By the time I was done, it was barely recognizable. It really is a completely different poem now. So, I decided to share it with the world. It is titled "I Will Defend."

At home I heard the rumors of war

but on those matters I thought nothing more

Until the day when I was called to the fight

To brave the trials of both day and night.

To fight for king, country, pride,

a gleaming blade placed at my side.

I will defend – my home

I was leaving with honor and heart held high

for my days of glory were coming nigh

till my wife waved me off, tears in her eyes

I could not ignore my child's hungry cries.

To fight for king, country, pride,

a gleaming blade, I hold by my side.

I will defend – my love

My days at war began to grow long

but still no battle songs had I sung

I began to grow weary of marching each day

wishing I was back in my home by the bay

To fight for king, country, pride,

a gleaming blade, unwelcome beside,

I will defend – my joy

I planned on leaving, deserting the group

I packed my things, leaving my troop

but signs of true battle began to show

and into the fight, I chose to go

To fight for king, country, pride,

a gleaming blade flashed out from my side

I will defend – my friends

The snow was crimson with the blood of our dead.

The earth did drink on that which was shed.

My deeds had been wrought, my works were done,

My life was fading with the setting sun.

To die for king, country, pride,

a gleaming blade, red at my side

I will defend – my honor

With my dying breaths I wrote a note

to be delivered and give my family hope.

For I would die for that which was right:

I had returned, and joined the fight.

To live for king, country, pride,

thoughts of my family, resting inside

I will defend

Liam Cadarch (This is the Beginning)

So, this is just an introduction to the main character of my new favorite story. I have spent a lot of time getting ready for the initial draft and I should begin posting actual (rough) chapters within a few weeks.

 The legend of the Coldfrost tells the story of the fourth War of the Sword and the rise of the all-King. It tells a story filled with kings, queens, wars, magic, sorrows, and joy. The legend, although told from many points of view, revolves mainly around a seventeen-year-old farmhand named Liam Cadarch. Now, before such a story can be written or told, one must understand just who this farmhand is.

Liam Cadarch was born on the 27^th of Andeas in the year 1315 CM in Camarid, the mountainous capital city of the country Gellion. He was born to Tepheus and Ellin Cadarch. Tepheus worked as a city guard and Ellin spent her spare time doing needlework. The family lived happily for the first four years of Liam's life, until Tepheus had a fatal run in with dark magic practitioners. Tepheus, as a member of the city guard, had gone investigating cultist activities in the caves near Camarid. While in these caves, he was unknowingly marked as he attempted to open a cursed door. The curse targeted him as the next prey for a nearby evil, the Wanderer. That night, when Tepheus returned home, the Wanderer followed.

The next morning a close friend of Tepheus's, Jonathan Aexa, stopped by the Cadarch home on his journey back to his farm. Upon entering the home, he found both Tepheus and Ellin slain. He then buried his friends, gathered what remaining belongings he could, and took Liam with him back to his mountainside farm.

It was at the Greenedge farmlands, about seven miles south-west of Camarid, that Liam was raised by Jonathan and his wife, Salla, alongside their own son, Artimedor. It was hear that he learned hard-work, increasing in both stature and strength. Because of his traumatic experience in his early life, he found it hard to confide in others on an emotional level, only ever becoming close to Artimedor, his adopted brother, and Evlynn, a neighboring farm-girl.

As he grew, he found great interest in the pursuit of knowledge: an interest which was shared with Evlynn. They began by reading books and eventually by meeting with scholars during visits to Camarid. It was on Liam's first such trip, a celebration of his eleventh birthday, that he received his first musical instrument, a wooden flute. Receiving this instrument marked the beginning of his interest in the art of creating music.

Between working on the farm and learning, Liam had little time for leisure, but when such a day would come when Liam was left to his own devices he would almost always be found alone, deep in the foothills of the white mountains. Here he would spend the long hours reading, playing his flute, or pondering deep things.

When Liam reached the age of fifteen, a Dayrunner war party attacked some homes near the Aexa farm. This reawakened Liam to his memories and planted a seed of unrest deep in his heart. This seed grew slowly, taking up more of his thoughts with each passing day. Finally, two months before his seventeenth birthday and with the help of Evlynn, he had formulated a plan; they would both, upon him reaching the age of seventeen, leave the farms on which they were raised and seek entry into the Scholar's Guild. Liam thirsted for change, and he saw this plan as the opportunity to begin making something of himself.

The legend of the Coldfrost begins at this point, two months before Liam's coming of age, months away from the fourth war, and at the beginning of a new era in the histories of Gildora.

Teaser

This is just the first few paragraphs of my second take on the Ezekiel Tyrus, stuff I was writing a while back, now titled Winterdom. It isn't much, but I really like where the ideas are going. You can probably expect more of it again, and probably in a more chronological format, unlike before. So, I mean, I will actually be posting it chapter by chapter, page by page, with a few other stories thrown in here and there. Anyway, enjoy:

There wasn't much to celebrate in those days; the royal family was failing, no word came from the peoples of the west, and Gildora seemed to have been thrown into a frigid twilight. Even the small village of Palfer's Hedge had been suffering from the darkness that had spread over the land, a darkness that hadn't been seen since the end of the Great Ages. Stories passed through the farming town of an evil growing in the lands to the north, bringing a deep cold to those dwelling in Camarid. But still the people of Palfer's Hedge celebrated. The yearly Festival of Plenty Harvest, or the Cathe Festival, as it was more commonly known, was in full throng, the fair-fields filled with vendors, tents, and attractions; bringing all those who dwelt in the nearby farms to the village. Even in this time of growing darkness, the humble farm-folk of Gildora still found time to give thanks for their harvest.

“The snows are gettin' stronger in the north,” the gruff innkeeper grumbled as he stroked his short, scraggly beard. “I hear there's a blizzard been blowing in Camarid, hasn't stopped for two weeks.”

“What do you know, Tarren?” a patron jeered from across the counter, “Nobody's been down from Camarid in the last two weeks, so no one could have told ya.”

“Nobody's been down from anywhere in the last two weeks,” a lanky blond joked from the corner of the room. A few chuckles ran across the crowd, but they were quieted when Tarren glared across the room.

“There's been one in the last two weeks, a travelin' merchant came off the Camarid road jus' last night. He's a quiet one, don't say much, but he knows stuff. He an' I got into a conversation of sorts when he got here, looking for a place to stay. 'The winds are blowing in the north,' he says 'Nobody is going to be passing through there this festival.' So I asked him how he did it, bravin' the storm. He just laughed and took to his room. I've not seen 'im since.”

The Winds Begin to Rise

This is not a very happy story... but don't worry. It gets a lot happier after this ;)

 The door slammed behind me as I stumbled into the rain. I looked back to see the the shutters close and hear the lock bolt closed. “Hey!” I screamed as I pounded on the dark wood, “I want my money! How am I supposed to survive on this?”

I slumped against the door. “I can't live on this...” I looked down at the twenty dollar bill in my hand. A stupid twenty when I had been promised fifty. A sob racked my body. How was I supposed to support my mother with so little? I was only twelve but I had been scraping by, making just enough money to pay for food for the two of us. All the extra money that I earned I put into my college fund; a jar that I kept in our home, hidden from my mother.

I dreamed of one day doing something with my life, something important. But for now I was stuck in the homeless slums of Miami, working low paying jobs for whoever would hire just to keep my mother and I alive. My father, who should have been providing for us, had left us when I was seven, leaving to join the Revolution. He said he left to bring us a better life, but after he left we never heard from him again, not even after the Revolution was brought down and things returned to the way they had always been.

A siren began to wail somewhere in the distance, echoing down the empty street. I stood up, hoping the rain would hide my tear streaked face and began the long walk home. This part of Miami was poor, one of the poorest places in the world. And Miami's law enforcement seemed to always turn a blind eye to this part of the city, making it one of the main crime hubs in the area. The major gang, led by a crime lord named Winter, held a heavy hand over the area.

I heard a gunshot come from somewhere nearby, probably about a street over. Screams erupted from the area. I cringed, but other than that I ignored it. Gunshots were common, daily sounds around here. I don't think there was a day in the last few years that I hadn't heard at least one. I had only ever made one real friend in my life and he and his family had been killed by the gang in a brutal murder. I hadn't made any friends after that. I didn't want to. I was afraid of losing people that I loved.

I finally reached my home, a rusty beat up bus in a dark alleyway. The bus was covered in the debris of a fallen building, so only the door was really noticeable. I could see a light coming from under the door and knew my mother must be home. I walked up to the opening and pried the door open with a crowbar that I always kept with me. As I walked in I looked at the floor. It was covered in bottles, beer bottles.

I knew something was wrong; we didn't have enough money to buy beer. Where did my mom get these? I took a step toward the back of the bus and saw my mother, curled in the corner sleeping. Surrounding her were about twenty drained bottles and a jar, my jar. The jar was empty, all the money that I had spent the last two years saving was gone. I heard myself yelling, screaming at my mother. As she woke up she was crying and holding her head. I didn't care. I was too distraught to care. In my rage I threw the jar at the wall, glass scattering everywhere, cutting a deep gash into my right hand. I screamed some more and ran out of the home, back into the rain, with tears streaming down my cheeks again.

I ran and ran, not knowing where I was going. I just ran. It didn't matter to me where I was going, just that I was going somewhere. I was tired of being stuck in these slums, tired of having to provide for a useless drunkard mother, tired of trying so hard without getting anything back. I ran back the way I had come, onto the street where the gunshot had sounded from. I saw, as I ran, the body of the victim lying alone on the street. This place was horrible. How could I ever amount to anything when I had started out here? Time began to blur as I ran, until I lost track altogether of when and where I was.

Finally, I stopped. My rage dying down, having been completely depleted. I was exhausted. I had used up all the energy I had, running and crying. It was dark; night had fallen. Suddenly, a horrible stench filled my nose. As the odor filled my senses I realized where I was. I had run straight to a corner of the neighborhood that was known as Pelvel's Canal; it was the worst possible place on earth. Pelvel's Canal was the gang's killing grounds, an empty canal littered with rotting bodies. People who came here didn't come back, ever. I turned around, facing back the way I had come. Standing in the alley that led to the canal was a large dark figure. Fear and anguish filled my soul. I was already exhausted and my body couldn't handle any more. I felt myself losing hold of my mind, fear taking place of sanity. My eyes started darkening and my head hit the ground as I lost all consciousness.

Nicholas

-- Just so you know, if you haven't met Daman yet, you can read about him in the post before this one: Daman Slade --

Daman walked up to the luminous screen; its dark glow filling the room with a eerie and shadowless light. He reached out and let his thumb rest on a large button. It was time he learned the truth about that boy: who he was, what he could do. The one thing that Daman could not bear was the inability to understand a person, their motives and feelings. The boy Nicholas was unlike anyone Daman had ever encountered; and he wanted to know why.

The screen beeped as a message ran across the display. This was his one chance of understanding what the boy could do, by looking back and viewing those things that he had pushed down and hidden. Daman waited a few seconds, staring at the screen, deciding if he was really going to do this. He closed his eyes, nodded to himself, and pressed the button.

“-Memory Replay activated - please select memory to review-”

…

“-file “Nicholas-thebeginning.mem” chosen – please wait while the memory loads-”

…

…

…

“-file loaded – initiating Memory Replay sequence-”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

“Daddy, why are we hiding? I thought those men were your friends. Why are they chasing us?”

The subway station is dark and lifeless. The few people present looked only at the ground, taking no time to notice their surroundings; New Dirsha is a rough part of town, the crime rates are high and at times like these, when the sun had gone down, it was unwise to wait too long in any one place.

“Daddy, why does my head keep hurting?”

No one pays any attention to the two figures in the shadowed corner; one older, with graying hair and a scruffy look, one young, no more than five years. They are shrouded in the darkness. Even the boy's voice, echoing through the station, is ignored by the ears of the commuters. None have the time, money, or compassion to give aid to the father and son.

“Daddy... can we go home? I'm tired and I hungry.”

“No! Nicholas, we cant go home! You don't understand what's at stake here!”

The boy, Nicholas, begins to cry.

“No, Nicholas, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shout. I... I'm just under a lot of stress right now. Please, Nicholas, please stop crying.”

Sniffling, with tears in his large brown eyes, Nicholas begins to speak, “I don't want to run anymore. I miss mommy and Annie. Can't we go home and see them?”

“We can't go back, Nicholas. We can't ever go back.” A tear streak appears on the man's grimy face. “Mommy and Annie are gone. We don't have a home anymore.”

The man looks up, glances over his surroundings and looks back to his son's watery eyes.

“Nicholas, do you remember that day when I took you with me to the Lab?”

“Yes”

“What do you remember? What did we do?”

“I... watched the fishies in the big tank and I ate lunch in your office. And you took me to the big white room with the lights.”

“Yes, Nicholas, and I am sorry I did. I had been working on a big project at work for a long time, but my boss wouldn't let me test my machine on anyone. It was dangerous. But then I brought you and decided to test the machine with you while no one else was there. Do you remember how you used to wear glasses?”

“Yes, but after I went with you I didn't need to anymore.”

“You're right. That is what the machine was supposed to do. It helps fix people that don't work anymore. But I wasn't supposed to use it on you, Nicholas. And I hadn't tested it enough yet.”

“But isn't it good? Cuz now I don't need glasses.”

“Well, Nicholas. The machine kept on working after it had fixed you. It tried fixing parts of you that weren't broken. I tried to stop it, but I couldn't. It made you change. That's why you have your headaches and why we are running; because I wasn't patient and I did things that I wasn't supposed to do.”

“Is that why I can still see the lights when I close my eyes; the lights from the room?”

“Yes, the lights are still there. They live inside you, always trying to fix you and make you better, changing you.”

A man in a dark suit walks into the station. He is tall with a dark complexion, a large jagged scar running down his left cheek. He turns, seeing Nicholas and his father in the corner. He looks down at his watch and begins to walk in their direction.

Nicholas' father speaks, “No, Gregor, you don't understand. You can't do this.”

“No, Doctor, I think it is you who doesn't understand.” The man's hand reaches into his coat.

Nicholas' father senses what might be coming and moves to put himself between Gregor and his son. Behind him, Nicholas suddenly spasms, falling down to sit on the ground.

“Daddy, the lights are getting brighter. My head hurts. The lights are hurting me.”

Gregor's hand moves out from his pocket. He is holding a gun, a long black pistol. A shot sounds, echoing through the station. People begin to scream. Nicholas' father groans and falls to the ground. People rush by, trying to get away from the danger as quickly as possible.

“Daddy! The lights hurt. They hurt!” Nicholas is curled up in the corner, eyes tightly closed, clawing at his head. He has skin and blood under his fingernails; his own skin and blood. “Stop them from hurting me!”

Gregor reaches the boy and bends down to grab is arm. As his hand closes around the skinny arm Nicholas' stops crying and clawing.

“Daddy, help me...”

Nicholas' eyes snap open and a green light bursts forth from them, filling the subway. He is completely stiff, not a muscle in is body is moving. Gregor relinquishes his grip on Nicholas' arm and backs away. The light grows, now emanating from all of Nicholas, his eyes, mouth, even his skin, becoming brighter than a summer noon-day sun, and still growing.

Gregor shouts, “Whats going o-” Suddenly, he is thrown across the station by an unseen force, smashing against the wall violently before falling to the floor.

The light grows, filled with pain and rage.

“Daddy... please.”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – 

“- Memory reading complete – shutdown process activated”

Daman backed away from the machine, his hands shaking. Trying to process everything that he had seen. He stood still for a few seconds before finally getting control of himself. He started to move towards the door of the room but stopped suddenly as his mind caught a hold of another presence in the room.

“What were you doing in my memories, Slade?”

Daman turned to find the source of the voice and saw the present day Nicholas, standing in the corner with tight fists by his side.

Daman Slade

As Daman entered the room, he began to take in his surroundings. The room was small, housing only six people, including himself, and a few pieces of furniture. There were three girls in the room, two of which seemed to be twins. The twins, who looked to be about seventeen years of age, were both blond, and from Daman's quick assessment of them, they seemed to act the part as well. The other girl, who was reaching her early years of adulthood, had bright, almost unnatural red hair and heat seemed to be emanating from around her. From what Daman could assess, she seemed to be intelligent, but highly volatile, listening to her emotions first and reason later. A sign of weakness from Daman's view.

The most surprising of the attendees to this 'meeting' was a young boy in a bright green jacket. The boy looked to be about eleven or twelve, not quite having reached the teen ages yet, but everything about the boy besides his appearance seemed to suggest otherwise. His entire essence seemed to be comprised entirely of intelligence. Before Daman could take a closer look at the boy, he noticed something else that demanded his attention; the room seemed to be filled with a strange sort of darkness. Although the room was well lit, shadows were flickering in places where shadows should not logically be placed.

The center of this phenomenon was around the man who Daman immediately recognized as Geth de'Erebos, shrouded in his unnatural shadows. Dark shapes moved on the floor and walls around him. He was standing at the end of the room behind a large ornate desk, which, by the carvings, Daman recognized to be hand-crafted by a carpenter from some part of the Northwood.

Daman began to asses the man, trying to acquire every detail that he could about him in as little time as possible. Geth had dark, near black, hair containing silver streaks above the ears: Geth must be beginning to feel the influence of his age. His face was strong; he had a powerful chin, a broad nose, and a thin mouth: the face of a politician and a leader. Geth wasn't tall, but strongly built, a low center of gravity: he could hold his own, physically. The shadows around Geth's face shifted and Daman got a view of his eyes; deep set, dark grey. They seemed to be surveying Daman in the same way that Daman was surveying him. The eyes showed intelligence and wisdom, but also apathy, lack of emotion. Daman was looking forward to find what had caused that in a man with as righteous a cause as Geth had.

Daman closed his eyes and let his mind begin to open. He immediately located Geth's presence and moved in on it. He wasn't surprised when he was met with opposition. Geth had been trained to block out the attacks of a psychic. He was a politician, and for a politician, your mind is your way of life. Daman felt around the wall, looking for weak points. The wall was strange, not a form that Daman had ever encountered before, not even very strong. It seemed to be more geared towards keeping something in, rather than keeping something out. After a few seconds, his mind caught hold of a chink in the wall. Daman sent all his energy at the flaw and within moments he broke through. As he entered Geth's mind, darkness closed in on his consciousness. Overwhelming waves of black power rushed into Daman's mind. He immediately released his grip on Geth's mind and retreated back into his own, eyes shooting open, grasping for a hold on reality. When he became aware of his surroundings he found himself staring into Geth's cold, dark eyes. The essence of this man seemed to fill the room around Daman, almost crushing him. Geth blinked, and the shadow's of his imprisoned memories seemed to flash across his eyes. Finally, Geth looked away, turning to focus on the other members of the meeting and the overwhelming feeling vanished.

“I would like you all to welcome into our presence Daman Slade, a criminal, a psychic, and the newest member of our revolution.”